by Pat Mullan
His instinct was right. Rounding the next bend he realized that he had come full circle and was about to emerge in the compound's motor pool. Jeeps and two and a half ton trucks were parked side by side. He waited and watched. Two guards covered the perimeter. They met in the middle and then turned and retraced their steps. As soon as they turned MacDara slipped through and picked the first jeep. He reckoned it'd be gassed up. Standard practise. Using the hunting knife he jump started the jeep and reversed into the compound. He could hear the guards yelling and shots being fired. But they didn't even come close. The jeep spun on the gravel beneath him as he turned on the high beams just in time to see five or six figures dash from doors on the buildings near the motor pool. Slamming his foot down on the accelerator he hit the road leading out to the main gate. He seemed to fly that last half mile. The element of surprise was with him. He could see the guard jump aside and drop the phone he was on as he crashed the jeep through the chain-link fence and took the last three miles to the main highway. After a while he could see headlights following in the far distance but, once he reached the highway, they disappeared. The Colonel had never really expected him to make it. For the first time he realized that his left leg was hurting like hell.
Raindrop bubbles stayed fixed on the windowpanes and the slender shoots of new branches wafted drunkenly in the late September wind. Small waves simmered on the watery grey surface of Long Island sound. MacDara had slept for twelve hours. A sleep punctuated by a recurrent nightmarish dream. This was one dream he still remembered upon waking. He had fallen down a chute, a vortex, into a cavern deep in the center of the earth. No light, no windows, no sky, no grass, no flowers and no other human life unless he counted the grotesque hunchback who alternately threatened him, guarded him and fed him some inedible watery grits.
"How does your leg feel this morning?"
Kate had just entered his bedroom, looking radiant.
"OK, until I try to move it. Still painful."
"Doc says you're to rest it for a few days. You know it's not broken but it won't get better if you don't take care of it. And I'm here to see that you do."
"Jawohl! Herr Nurse," saluted Owen as Kate picked up a pillow from the chair and caught him directly on the chest. As she tried to retrieve it, he grabbed her and dragged her into the bed.
"Did the Doctor prescribe any special therapy to help me recover, Nurse?"
"As a matter of fact he did. But you must lie perfectly still," she said as she slid under the covers and began to unbutton his pajamas slowly, one button at a time.
MacDara had ditched the jeep in Nashville three days ago, called Shields, and then caught a connecting flight through Atlanta to New York. The therapy was Shields' prescription. He had called Kate. She was waiting for him when he stopped off the plane. Took him directly to Doc Levin at Long Island Jewish for a complete checkup and then home to Dune Road for a soaking hot bath and sleep. And therapy. Two Federal agents were posted outside, courtesy of Shields.
Everyone was now on a war footing.
THIRTY
The White House
Washington, D.C.
They met in the Oval Office. It was 8 p.m. and the President was tired. It had been a long day. Senator Sumner Hardy got right to the point.
"Mr. President, I'm sure you know why I'm here."
"No, I don't, Sam. Why don't you tell me."
"Don't be coy, Mr. President. You know damn well why I'm here. I'm asking you. No! I'm telling you to reconsider. You can't win."
"Sam, you're a dangerous man. I intend to stop you !"
"Mr. President, I came here to warn you. Don't try to stop us."
"Are you threatening the President, Sam?"
"No threat. You can only govern with our consent. I was hoping to let '96 take care of that. If you think you can launch an offensive against us, think again. We will not be defeated. "
"You are threatening this democracy, Senator. You would lead this nation into another civil war. Do you really want to see brother against brother?"
"Mr. President, this nation is not divided. We are united, north and south, east and west. Our enemies are well known! They're the liberals, socialists, anarchists and atheists who have almost destroyed this country. Get down from your ivory tower! Look at what's happening out there!"
"Don't lecture me, Senator! What you're seeing out there is change. Not chaos. You're looking at a society examining its values, changing what it believes in. And you're afraid of that. You want to stay frozen in your privileged, bigoted past. Well, this democracy gives you the right to do that. And it gives you the freedom to persuade others. Persuade, not force, Senator. You will not end two hundred years of democracy while I am President! Do you understand that, Sam?"
"Mr. President, I did not come here to debate your liberal views. I came here to advise you of the consequences if you move against us. Our citizens are well able to defend themselves. We have strong support right here in Washington. And we hold key positions in our defense forces. Are you going to ask us to attack ourselves? If this comes down to a contest between you and me, who do you think is going to win? Did you see your standing in the latest opinion polls? Only thirty-five percent think you're doing a good job!"
The President had been sitting at his desk during the entire discourse. But now he was visibly angry. His face was red and his eyes fiery with rage. He jumped out of his chair, his voice loud and final:
"Senator, this meeting just ended. Get out of my office ! Now!"
The Senator was not intimidated. His lips arched in a sardonic smile. Then he turned and left.
The Hardy Mansion
Blacksburg, Virginia
It was late afternoon. General Zachary Walker drove along the tree-lined avenue that meandered its way to the front entrance of the Hardy mansion. The bronze, gold and yellow of fallen leaves painted his path, impressing him again with the beauty of the place. It had been two years since he'd been here and the sense of history was still pervasive. When the Senator's great-great-grandfather had built the original mansion in 1773, it stood at the beginning of the frontier. A stockade surrounded it then to protect it against marauding Indians. The General could almost imagine warpainted warriors running towards him through the tall trees. Yet everything seemed so safe and peaceful now. Far away from the frontiers of conflict. Unless he contemplated the events of recent days. The meeting with the President was still fresh in his mind when he received the invitation from Senator Hardy to meet on a 'matter of national importance'. He recalled the conversation in his office:
"I believe that the President is mentally unstable."
"Senator! You can't mean that!"
"Oh, but I do mean it, Zach. You haven't seen and heard him like I have lately. He has developed a siege mentality, a persecution complex. Thinks there's a plot against him. He actually believes that there's a 'fifth column' in Washington trying to sabotage the country. And who does he think is behind it? Me! He blames me! Our successes have spooked him. He's scared. He's afraid of losing. So his mind has contrived this elaborate persecution complex. He's even convinced himself that we're planning a coup. Can you imagine that? Planning a coup! That's lunacy if I ever heard it. And that scares me, Zach. In his state of mind he might do anything. Even launch an attack against his imagined enemies. He would destroy this country. Destroy this democracy. Two hundred years of independence and freedom up in flames! We can't let that happen!"
The drive down from Washington had given the General plenty of time to think. There was no doubt that the President considered the Senator to be a dangerous man. But that didn't mean that the President was becoming paranoid. Did it? The President did feel threatened by the move to the right. And what about Harry Whiteside and Charlie Pettigrew? Where does that all fit? Did Harry start all this paranoia when he began his memoirs? And what about this fellow Thackeray? It was still difficult to accept that Harry might have been killed to keep his mouth shut. To protect him. Zachary Walker was conf
used. Thinking about things didn't help at all. He felt as though he was on a treadmill and that he was incapable of getting off. He'd have to ride it to the end. The End. A shudder passed through him and he fixed his resolve on two things. He had given the President his word of honor and he would keep it. He also decided that this would not be the time to confront the Senator.
A number of vehicles were parked in the forecourt. The General pulled in beside them. Admiral Donnelly's official car was already there. The Senator greeted him warmly in the hallway:
"Zach, it's a pity it takes a crisis to get you to visit."
He seemed genuinely cheerful. Odd, thought General Walker, given the reason for this meeting.
"Garret Donnelly, 'Duke' Walter and Hank McKinney are all here. We're still waiting for Phil Mannion and Sheila Gregory. Bob Maxwell might join us too if he can get away."
The room was large, filled with big stuffed comfortable furniture that softened the unsmiling ancestral portraits on the wall. Everyone greeted the General as he entered.
"Don't get up", he said to the three men and, in response to the Senator, said: "A Scotch will be fine. On the rocks."
There was a relaxed atmosphere in the room. Partly because everyone was at least one drink ahead of him, observed Zachary Walker. Admiral Garret Donnelly's ample girth was embedded in the middle of the largest sofa in the room. 'Duke' Walter and Hank McKinney sat on either side of the blazing fireplace. These men were all his direct reports. The Admiral headed the Navy, 'Duke' Walter the Air Force and Hank McKinney was Commandant of the Marine Corps. 'Duke' Walter got his nickname because he walked just like John Wayne even though he resembled him in no other way.
'Don't let me put a damper on anything", said General Walker, "This isn't a meeting of the Joint Chiefs."
"Oh, hell, Zachary. We were only discussing a matter of national security. Hank's golf game!", kidded 'Duke' Walter.
The Senator entered into the light banter in the room and the General suddenly realized he was on his second Scotch when Sheila Gregory arrived. Tall and elegant, she greeted everyone with a reserve befitting a Justice of the Supreme Court. Which she was. Many said that she felt that the President should have appointed her Chief Justice. She was eminently qualified. But the consensus was that her views and judgements were conservative in the extreme. Some said that she held a grudge against the President.
Sheila Gregory accepted a soft drink. The light banter in the drawing room ended. The small talk became nothing but small talk.
Phil Mannion and Bob Maxwell arrived within ten minutes of each other. Still in time for dinner but too late for the seafood terrine that everyone had praised. The Senator had escorted them into the diningroom promptly at six p.m. Phil Mannion was deputy Director of the FBI. A career agent, he had worked his way up in the bureau and had served as Deputy Director during the past three administrations. The top job had eluded him. But no-one, not even FBI Director Redington, knew the inner workings of the bureau better than Mannion. He was a born-again Christian and a 'general of the religious right'. Bob Maxwell, the last of the invitees, took his seat at the table at exactly six-thirty. Chairman of the House Finance Committee and the most influential member of the House Banking and Ways and Means Committees, Bob Maxwell controlled the purse strings of Congress. Many said that he was more powerful than the Speaker. A man whose philosophy was rigidly to the right of center, he was also a 'general of the religious right'.
It was eight o'clock when the Senator got down to the real business of the day. By this time everyone had dropped their defenses. Good food and good wine had sated their bodies and their minds.
"You all know why we're here. There's no point in delaying the agony any longer. Many of you believe as I do. Our President is mentally unbalanced. And there's no point in looking to the Vice President. He has no real authority. I seriously doubt that he could handle it anyway. It's patently obvious that he was put on the ticket just to 'buy' his voters during the election campaign. He's just a rubber stamp. So, where does that leave us? The Speaker? I don't know about all of you but I do not trust the man. He's an opportunist, a truly shallow person. So, there's nobody there to succeed this President should anything happen to him."
"We're lucky he's in good health. We'd better hope he stays that way", said Admiral Donnelly.
"It's only till next year, Sam. We'll take him this time. Then you'll be in the oval office and we can set this country right again", Hank McKinney's voice tried to sound optimistic but didn't quite make it.
"We don't have until next year, Hank. We may not even have until next month", said the Senator, his voice raised just enough to throw a hush over the table.
"Sam. what do you mean 'we don't have until next month'?", asked Zachary Walker.
"My intelligence tells me that the President is planning to take military action against us. Under the pretext that he's suppressing a coup!"
"But I'd know about it if anything like that was being planned", claimed Phil Mannion.
"No, you wouldn't, Phil. Tom Redington would. You wouldn't. It's no secret that you are on my 'Hardy for President' committee. This President knows that. You'd be the last FBI man he'd consult", instructed the Senator.
"Well, if there was anything goin' on the Congress sure-as-hell would be kept in the dark. He hasn't consulted us on a goddamned thing in the last three years", bitched Bob Maxwell.
"Sam, I report directly to the President and he hasn't said a thing about any of this", said General Walker, a strong tone of disbelief and even rebuke in his voice.
"Zachary, trust me. You will hear about it. Soon. You will be one of the people he'll take into his confidence. He trusts you. You're an honest man, Zach. There's not too many of those left. And he'll need you. He can't mount an offensive like this without planning and support from people like you. Oh, he doesn't need the army, the airforce, the navy and the marines. Not for the kind of quick hit operations he plans. But he does need your forces to stand down. He'll want to be sure that no-one moves against him."
Sheila Gregory had remained silent. Now she neatly summarized, just like a legal brief:
"Senator, let me summarize what I think I've heard you say. The President is mentally incompetent. He's planning to engage in hostile actions against his political opponents. Against you, personally. These actions are imminent. You are saying that he must be removed from office. Now. You're also saying that there's no time to impeach. You further claim that the Vice President is an incompetent and the Speaker is a charlatan. Do I understand you correctly?"
"Sheila, I couldn't have summarized it better", answered Senator Hardy.
"You said 'your intelligence' told you that the President is planning these military actions. I would need to see some physical evidence of that", demanded Admiral Donnelly.
"That you will have, Garret. This is too serious a matter to proceed on my word alone", promised the Senator.
"Sam, let's cut to the bottom line", Bob Maxwell said, reducing the entire matter to one of his financial proformas: "Are you suggesting that we 'remove' the President from office and install you in his place. If you are, that's a coup! Aren't you giving in to the President's paranoia?"
"Bob, it's a self-fulfilling prophesy. The President, by his intended actions, leaves us no other choice. And it will not be a coup. I will be a caretaker President. For one year only. Until next year's elections. Then, assuming our support remains strong, I'll be elected for a four year term. We're not planning to overthrow this democracy. Only to save it. I will explain that to the American people. You will help me do that. Don't underestimate the solidarity we have on the ground out there. The people will understand."
Zachary Walker woke up in a cold sweat. He could feel a tightness across his chest as though he was being pinned to the bed by a restraint. Dull aches extended down his left arm and his fingers and toes sent pins and needles to his brain. He felt very weak. Waves of nausea swept over him. The clock at his bedside said it was three th
irty in the morning. He wanted to vomit but feared getting out of bed. His heart was palpitating and it seemed as though the sound could be heard throughout the bedroom. His claustrophobia had started again. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. He imagined a white dot in the far distance and lines extending from it to his arms and legs, just like a marionette. He tried to focus on that image and rid his mind of everything else. But it didn't work. The nausea got worse. He had to get to the bathroom so he forced himself onto the floor and crawled to the bathroom door. Somehow he made the few feet to the toilet bowl and vomited. All the dinner that hadn't been digested. Then the dry retches commenced, racking his body and refusing to stop until he could hardly breathe. He lay there, in a fetal huddle, for at least fifteen minutes before raising himself up to the sink where he rinsed out his mouth and splashed water on his face. The vomiting had helped. He was still weak but the nausea had disappeared and the claustrophobia had abated. He made it back to the bed and just lay there while his mind took over.
They were all spending the night at the Hardy mansion. It must have been close to one a.m. when the evening ended. Too much cognac and coffee. Experience should have taught him that he would pay for it. But they had taken decisions that would alter the course of American history. If he didn't stop them. Last night he had no choice but to go along with it and the cognac had dulled the pain inside. They had agreed to meet in four days time in the Senator's Washington town house. The Senator would bring his physical evidence to prove that the President was going to launch an offensive. They would plot the details of execution. They would plot the overthrow of the President of the United States. And that's exactly what it was. A plot. The enormity of what his dinner associates had contemplated scared him.